


Larch

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 11:09:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5288465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin gets an unexpected helping hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Larch

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for hobbithelltrashsquad’s “Thorin/Treebeard smut” prompt on [tumblr](http://hobbithelltrashsquad.tumblr.com/post/133817971985/yeaka-can-u-write-thorintreebeard-smut). Special thanks to pt_tucker for the help plotting!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

After a solid hour dealing with Thranduil, Thorin can’t take any more. The recess they call is much needed, and Thorin doesn’t stay long enough to hear Thranduil’s reply to Bard’s muttered observation that they should’ve kept the talks in Dale. At least when negotiations occur in Erebor, Thorin has the luxury of his quarters to retreat to. Here, everywhere he looks is just more _elves_ , and that’s why he finds himself stalking off into the forest, despite Dwalin and Balin’s fervent protests. He won’t go far and only for a short while, he promises, and besides, this close to Thranduil’s keep, the lands are _supposedly_ safe. He brings his sword just in case and no small degree of bottled vigor he’ll unleash on any creature that dares disturb him.

The woods are mostly dark this time of day, not pitch-black yet like when he first came through with his company over a year ago, but enough to make it hard to see much in the distance. He wades through the thick underbrush and through the heavy knit of trees, eager to be out of Elven eyesight, although he knows they’ll likely follow him. They’ll get an eyeful for it. Thorin has to release his energy on _something_ , and he isn’t about to let a bunch of prissy elves hold him back. He stops at the first proper sitting place he finds—a mass of gnarled roots that look almost sculpted like a chair without armrests. It’s far from the stone throne he prefers, but it’ll do. He settles down on it, facing outward, pleased at the little enclave around him. It’s pure wilderness, feral and unfettered. It’s _Thranduil’s_ wilderness.

And Thorin’s going to stain it the best he can. He spends maybe a minute rearranging his legs and getting comfortable, stretching out and lounging back against the hardened bark, and then spreads his legs wide and drops a hand to massage the front of his trousers. The idea alone has stirred him— _sullying_ Elven land and a release from Elven pretentiousness—but there’s still much work to do. It’s always been difficult for him to get off without a partner. A handsome prince like him, used to traveling with a handful of loyal, eager followers, usually has no need of his own hand. But sneaking off into the woods with another would be suspicious and just give Thranduil fodder to prod. Taking Balin would give him too much grief over his attitude at council, and Dwalin would only feed into his hatred and leave him returning more irate than ever. So his hand will have to do. 

He gets himself reasonably hard from thoughts of spite. He vacillates between images of upturning Thranduil’s table and fucking Ori over his throne, spitting in Thranduil’s wine and stuffing his cock down Bofur’s throat. He shuts his eyes and leans his head back, kneading the outline of his cock and pretending his hand belongs to Dori, Nori kneeling before him with an open mouth, then Bombur’s fat tits squished around him. He has a host of new lovers now that Erebor’s restored, but those that followed him on his quest are always his favourites—they were there for him, and his cock, when no one else was. He thinks of splashing his seed right into Glóin’s beard and shoving Óin’s face into his ass, then entertains the fleeting fantasy of Gandalf putting that long, gnarled staff to good use.

Finally, he’s straining in his trousers, hard as he’ll get and demanding freedom, and he hurriedly unfastens his waistband without pausing, tunic riding up. He pulls his cock out and into the cool night air, then lifts one palm to spit in, eyes opening again. Looking down gives him the odd thought of using a fistful of grass and the plant leaves around him to jerk off—just something to erase the feeling of his own hand—but it seems too much work to bother and he winds up just going on. He can go a while like this and plans to, hips gently rocking up into the languid strokes of his spit-slicked fingers, with a little squeeze here and there and a haphazard twisting motion. He stops once to slide down his foreskin and press his thumb against the tip, grunting in satisfaction. 

A second later, he freezes, head swiveling around—something moved in his peripherals. The woods look perfectly still. He keeps his hand still anyway, cock throbbing and calling for action. But he’s cautious. Just when he’s sure he was wrong and saw nothing, he hears a branch crick on the other side and jerks around again, snarling, “Who’s there?”

At first, nothing happens. Thorin stays his hand, breathing hard and ready to reach for his sword, eyes scanning the forest around him. When the answer comes, it’s from overhead.

“Well, now,” a voice drawls, incredibly deep and very, very slow, “that is a rather... hurm, hoom... long question...”

Thorin’s head snaps back, eyes wide, his body arching off his seat to look, and to his utter shock, two glassy eyes blink down at him, strange but distinctly _alive_. For one of very few times in his life, Thorin’s too shocked to speak. The tree, opening a groove like a mouth, rolls on, “Treebeard will do, in your tongue, but my real name...” the tree—Treebeard, it seems—pauses, making a loud rumbling noise in the back of it’s throat, assuming it has such a thing. “...That could take a long, long time, and you seem to be in a rather... hrm... hasty mood...”

As the tree talks, one branch shifts around Thorin, not quite closing him in, not threatening, just hovering closer, and if he weren’t absolutely sure that he could take on a tree, he’d chop it right off. He still eyes it suspiciously, and Treebeard goes on, “I could... hoom... help you, I suppose.”

“Help?” Thorin grunts, disbelieving, his cock now all but forgotten. Then he wrinkles his nose, checking suspiciously, “What Elven trickery is this?”

“Hoom hoom!” Treebeard mutters, sounding almost affronted, which in Thorin’s book, is a good sign. “I am no elf or trick. I am an Ent. And you are... if the old songs are still true... hrm... you are a dwarf.”

“I am,” Thorin admits, but doesn’t give his name. An _Ent_. He’s heard of those in stories, old, forgotten things, and never thought they truly existed. But Middle Earth is full of all kinds of strange beasts, and it seems he’s found a sentient one. He has nothing more to say, mostly still frozen in surprise and baffled as to what to do about it. When he shifts uncomfortably, his hand rubs along his dick, and it draws his attention back. True to Dwarven stamina, he hasn’t wilted one bit from the interruption. An Ent, after all, is no threat, and he can’t imagine withholding his own pleasure over a _tree_.

Although, sitting in a sentient creature’s lap to jerk off isn’t what he’d intended. While he’s still thinking, Treebeard offers again, slow and steady, “Should I help? It has been a long time... but I _remember_...” the next words he mutters are too stretched, too deep for Thorin to understand, maybe not in the common tongue, if trees have a language of their own. But the branch comes closer to him, and Thorin, for whatever reason, lets it.

He’s had all manner of things in his time. He’s fucked dwarves, Men, hobbits—one elf, once, but he was drunk and regretted it in the morning. He’s never had a _tree_. The idea’s as strangely fascinating as it is sickly absurd. The branch hovers next to his lap, and Thorin sees now that its many prongs aren’t all that different from fingers, though far longer. Moss creeps around it—something that looks pleasant, soft, and Thorin’s cock is too hard by now to deny a helping hand. He brings his own hand away and lets the nimble branches wrap around him with startling dexterity. The brush of it—stern wood under spongy overgrowth, drags a gasp out of his lips. Treebeard makes a rattling noise and slips another branch-hand around Thorin’s middle, gradual as a snail. 

If possible, the bark seems warmer now. The vines behind his head have become softer, something like a pillow—perhaps the beard for which Treebeard’s named. Treebeard’s very large, but Thorin fits nicely in his lap, and his cock’s thick enough to make full use of Treebeard’s hand. He pulses, pink and purple at the tip, in Treebeard’s withered brown and green clutches. Treebeard strokes him once, torturously slow, and murmurs something about, “...A very, _very long time_...”

The touch of a stranger’s hand is always thrilling, and Thorin arches back again, hips thrusting forward. The slide of his sensitive flesh along the bark’s nuances, grooves and indents, is a wondrous feeling. The moss is somewhat damp—the perfect padding—and squishes slickly around him. Best of all, Treebeard’s large hand covers much of him at once, far more than Thorin’s hand could cover, and each of his fingers seem to ripple as he moves, creaking different measures of tightness at different times, stimulating to the fullest. The only problem is that his pace is so dawdling that it leaves the sexual frustration mounting in Thorin’s chest.

He has the solution for that, fortunately. He bucks his hands once up into Treebeard’s hand, stuffing his fat cock through the hoop of branches, groaning at the squeeze and pressure and squelch of mossy juices. Not bad for a tree. He does it again, again, setting his own pace amidst Treebeard’s own and using full force with his hips—a tree can take it—and Treebeard makes a thundering sound again but obliges.

“A pretty thing you are,” Treebeard rumbles after a while, over Thorin’s loud panting and groans, “thick and furred, lick a creature of my forest... hoom, hoom... perhaps the Ent-wives found other things... perhaps we should... perhaps we must, too...” Thorin doesn’t understand what Treebeard means and doesn’t care, just fucks Treebeard’s hand with his hard cock and reaches to steady himself on Treebeard’s legs or roots or whatever they are. It gives him more leverage to jerk his hips brutally into Treebeard’s offering. He wonders idly what Treebeard’s mouth feels like—he always likes a good mouth from any species, and this uneven surface is amazingly satisfying, Treebeard’s deep voice strangely sensual, the whole situation oddly erotic that nature itself should help Thorin come. Treebeard’s next words are in his own tongue but are maybe a compliment and sound curious. 

Thorin ignores it and growls for himself, “Do you have a cock, Ent?” It’s been a while since he’s ridden a wooden one, but he’s certainly taken them, and he doesn’t mind something stiff and unforgiving when he’s this hard, this close. And wouldn’t it be fitting, if he could find a throne for himself in the woods that could meet all his needs, fill his hole and stroke his dick and embrace him all at once?

But Treebeard only murmurs, “Not that you could ride, little one... though... hurm... we may have to learn...”

Thorin wouldn’t mind learning. He wouldn’t mind being skewered open and stretched wide on a few branches and stuffed full of wood. But he settles for this, for Treebeard’s willing hand and strange touches and deep, arousing voice, and then he has the giddy thought of Thranduil’s own forest submitting to his cock and it makes him come with a wild roar, his seed shooting up and all over the grass. Treebeard makes a surprised but pleased sound and blissfully pumps him out. Thorin covers that hand in royal seed for a reward.

By the time he’s spilled every last drop, Thorin’s a panting mess that slumps back against the trunk, satiated and over-hot. It was an oddly satisfying orgasm—one of his most exciting first-times. If he’d known Ents gave such good hand jobs, he would’ve sought out their allegiance much sooner.

As it is, he grunts, “Thanks,” and pushes Treebeard’s hand away so he can tuck himself back in, after wiping his shaft off on a few leaves.

Treebeard rumbles, “Interesting...” and the mumbles off again. Thorin doesn’t ask what he’s missing. 

When he catches his breath, he intends to sit up and find whatever knob trees use to fuck. But before he gets the chance, he hears a distance cry through the woods, the sound of trampling feet, and a clearer, “Thorin!” he recognizes Dwalin’s voice and realizes, from the thickness of the dark and the tiredness of his bones, that he’s been gone far too long. If it were a little lighter out and he had more energy, he’d think to stay and show Dwalin this new treat.

But that took a lot out of him, and he knows better than to sleep in this forest, even in the arms of a seeming ally. He pushes to his feet with a sense of minor irritation and wonders if he should ask how long Treebeard will be staying in this general vicinity. Maybe he could be convinced to inhabit the charred lands of the Lonely Mountain. 

Instead, Thorin turns to look at his host, and Treebeard asks first, “Where you are from... you have not seen any Ent-wives, have you?”

Thorin, sure he would’ve noticed more talking trees, shakes his head and mutters, “No.” Treebeard’s beady eyes blink, and Thorin ponders what more to say but comes up with nothing. 

He winds up leaning up on the toes of his boots to peck Treebeard’s gnarled cheek. As he turns to tromp back through the woods, he hears Treebeard mutter, “Hasty...” For some reason, it makes him smile.


End file.
